


Infection

by wineandpotatochips



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Ahch'to, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Loss of Virginity, Luke is going to be pissed, PWP, Reylo of course, Snoke is going to be even more pissed, well there's a bit of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wineandpotatochips/pseuds/wineandpotatochips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Other people's emotions infected him, so he closed himself off, shut them down. Until SHE found her way in. He has to find a way to end the pain, and he only knows one way. Destroy the thing that is causing it. Or is there, maybe, another way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infection

* * *

 

Other people's emotions infected him.

The negative ones were the worst – when his parents fought, red anger rolling over him like a tide of blood. When his father was away, his mother's loneliness, midnight blue and deep as an ocean, drowning him. That time, when he was five, and some rogue Imperials had attacked the convention hall where his mother was giving a speech, the fear, engulfing everyone, little tendrils of it licking out, wrapping around him, dragging him down, down into an abyss he couldn't climb out of. And sadness. That was the worst. Sadness rolled over him like a fog, swallowing him. He couldn't deal with other people's sadness. It wrung tears from his eyes for sorrows that weren't his; that he didn't even understand, and pulled him in with the gravity of a black hole, trapping him in the singularity of sorrow.

But the positive emotions were no better. They were just as infectious, and in some ways more insidious because he enjoyed them. It was like a high, riding along on the joy of others. But when he came down, oh the crash. The exhaustion. He had to hide in his room, alone, under the covers for hours to recover.

Then, of course, there were his own emotions. When he was excited, his toys levitated, tiny starships and toy animals hovering just off the floor. When he had tantrums, things flew across the room, slamming into the wall.

When he was very little, he thought everyone was this way. It wasn't until he was four or five that his mother _explained_. He was different. He was special. Like her. Like Uncle Luke. It was a gift, she said, one they would help him learn to use.

Learn to _control_.

Her anxiety prickled over his skin and made him itch. His father's distress as she spoke poked at him like millions of tiny needles.

He caught snippets of his father's thoughts: _too strong, too emotional, too much power, have to be vigilant, watch him, make sure he doesn't turn out like…_

Like who?

It didn't feel like a gift. It felt like a curse.

He did, however, learn to use it. To move objects, to keep himself warm in the cold, to heal a scraped knee. They kept pushing him to go train with Luke, but he didn't want to. He just wanted Mommy. He needed Mommy. Because the scary voice never came when Mommy was there. He didn't' know who the scary voice was, but he knew the only thing _it_ was scared of was Mommy. But she was so busy, never home, so the scary voice was there a lot.

Control your emotions, Uncle Luke kept telling him when he finally gave in and went to the Academy. And he tried. He meditated, he waited for calm, for peace. It never came. Just when he could almost reach it, almost taste it, it fled, replaced by someone else's sadness or irritation. He didn't know how to explain that it wasn't just his own emotions. It was everyone's, contaminating him. He trained himself to block it out, turn it off, but in doing so, he turned off his own sense of empathy and compassion as well. The scary voice got louder, then.

* * *

He had not allowed himself to feel what others felt for so long. Years. Decades. But now, this girl. He stared at her, strapped to the interrogation chair and instead of terror, he saw snarling defiance on her face. Felt it radiating off her.

Her mind was strong, stronger than any he had ever known, and getting in was difficult. But when he did, what he found there stunned him. Her feelings were such a perfect match for his own, a brighter mirror, and he let himself open, just a little. And she let herself in through that small opening, and she saw him, she felt him, she _knew_ him.

It cracked him wide open.

And there was no escaping it. The connection remained, after her escape, after their fight. He still felt her, and he knew she felt him. He recovered in disgrace, his master chiding him, pouring more pain into his wounds through the Force, making them burn.

"You have compassion for her. You feel connected to her."

He hung his head in shame. It was true. She ran through his bloodstream like an infection. And with every day he burned brighter, hotter, feelings coursing through him like liquid fire.

The connection festered, grew, and his master looked at him with disgust because he _let_ it.

She had marked him. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the slash across his face. He could not heal himself anymore, not since he had embraced the dark, and his master denied him even the mercy of bacta, so it had scabbed over unevely, a raw, red gash down his face. It itched. It hurt, hot and pink around the edges from septicity. But he couldn't hate it. It was hers, her claim on him. He picked at the scabs. Then he dug his nails into one, ripping it off, howling in pain. Blood dripped down his face, down his throat, smeared across his hand and stuck under his nails. The pain seared through him, centered him, brought him back to himself.

He knew what he had to do.

He would find her. He would put a stop to this. He vowed this, before his master. She was a weakness, a torment, that he would rip out and destroy.

His master smiled. "Yessss. I am pleased you have reached the correct conclusion, apprentice. Now, now you may complete your training."

He even allowed him a bit of bacta for his face and his side.

* * *

When they arrived on the island, it was raining; a torrential tropical downpour, swirling in from the warm ocean, battering the island. He stalked through the storm, wind whipping his black robes, oblivious to the rain. His knights followed, also ignoring the weather. Weather was irrelevant.

He felt the presence of his uncle in one of the huts. He stopped at the door, looked in. The old man was sleeping. He sent a wave of Force power, making sure he kept sleeping, and stalked toward the girl's hut, his knights surrounding him.

She sensed him, of course, and was outside, standing in the rain, lightsaber glowing, ready.

One of his Knights lunged at her. He plunged his saber into him, impaling him, without a second thought. "She's mine," he growled, and the others froze. "Return to the ship. I have what I came for."

"But, Master Ren…"

"Do as I say or join Magnan Ren." He gestured at the knight on the ground.

They retreated, returning to the ship. This was his quest after all. She was his kill. They would not stand in their master's way.

"Well?" She spat.

He lunged at her, attacking savagely. Better to do it quickly, get it over with. She blocked him. She had been training, too. They fought, slipping in the mud. The rain drenching her hair, pouring into her face. He had her, then, against the edge of another cliff. She had nowhere to go. He could end it now. Just plunge the saber through her heart.

Her heart.

He was caught, unable to look away from her eyes, snapping with light and dark, her cheeks bathed red in the lurid glow of his lightsaber, her lips, oh, her lips, pulled away from her teeth in a snarl, so fierce and fearless. Suddenly a new feeling washed through him, clearing away the bloodlust and replacing it with…

He knew she felt the change, and he saw her face change too. Her lips parted slightly as her breath came heavy and fast.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, her voice so low he had to step closer to hear it.

He realized it had never been his lightsaber he had wanted to plunge into her flesh. He lowered the blade, ripped off his helmet and reached out with the Force, pulling her against his body, holding her with one strong arm, his large palm cupping the back of her head, as he bent toward her and took her mouth in a hungry, feral kiss, his tongue parting her lips and plunging in. She whimpered against him but did not push him away. Instead she grabbed the folds of his cowl and pulled, pulling him closer, her mouth moving against his.

He broke away. Why had he done that? What was he thinking? He had come here to kill her, end his misery. End his weakness. Instead…

"Don't think. Just feel," she said, pulling his mouth back against hers. This time she was the wild one, grabbing huge handfuls of his hair, pulling his head down. He wrapped both arms around her and leaned into the kiss, bending her back, pressing against her body. He was vaguely aware that he was dragging her toward her hut, only fully realizing what he was doing when rain no longer drenched them.

By this point, the bond was strong. And he could feel it getting stronger, could feel himself opening up, letting himself feel again, as they stripped away layers of wet clothing. He felt her skin under his fingers, but he also felt his fingers on her skin. It was a fascinating dual perception.

There was a small fire smoldering on the hearth, and her skin glowed in the firelight. He wanted to lick it.

"I came here to kill you."

She was looking at him, her eyes huge, her head tilted to the side. "So lonely," she whispered, reaching a hand out to touch his chest. He shuddered, ice and fire running through his body. "You came here to stop the pain," she corrected.

"Yes."

"So make it stop." She glanced down at the bindings around her breasts, at his hand.

His hand was trembling when he reached out to touch her.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I feel it too."

Slow, hesitant, he unwound the bindings, unwrapping her like a gift. He dropped the strip of cloth to the floor. Took a step closer to her. Cupped her breast in his hand, rubbing his thumb gently over the nipple. She gasped, the nipple hardening at his touch. He couldn't resist; he leaned in and took it in his mouth, sucking, nipping with his teeth.

Her hands were at his waist, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers, finally figuring them out. A few more steps and they were free of all clothing and tumbling onto her bed.

Then there was no more thought, no more anything except emotion and sensation. He ran his mouth down her throat, kissing, sucking, while his hands roamed over her body, touching everywhere. And she did the same, her head thrown back, panting, writhing while she ran her hands over the muscles of his chest and back.

He could feel everything she felt, and it felt good. Oh, it felt so, so good. Her gasps were loud in his ear, her breath hot on his face.

None of this made sense but it was so clearly what they both wanted.

He had never done anything like this before. Never allowed himself to. So afraid of emotion, of closeness, he had closed that door years ago. The other knights had often indulged after missions, in dubiously consensual liasons with locals that he found distasteful, or paid debauchery at brothels, but he had never participated, telling himself it was because he was more serious, more committed, more devoted to training, to perfecting his power. But it was really because he was afraid. Oh, the biological urge remained strong, but he was able to appease his body himself.

Or so he thought. Because right now, he realized his body had not been appeased _at all_. It had just been waiting, because now he was harder than he had ever been, his cock throbbing and aching and _demanding_ and while he wasn't sure of all the mechanics he knew that he needed to connect with her body _now_.

He shifted, pushing her onto her back, thrusting against her. Her legs were underneath him and he knew he needed them to move, wondered why she wasn't letting him get any closer when he could practically hear her mind screaming 'CLOSER'. Then he realized…she'd never done this either. That thought sent a thrill down his spine; she would be his, only his, and he would be hers, and they would _belong_.

She picked up on the thought and pulled him closer and wiggled her hips against his, mimicking his movements. Then it was all just frantic touching, hands and mouths and tongues everywhere, and somehow her legs parted and he was thrusting against the soft hair down there, and she was rolling her hips up and down so his cock rubbed against her folds and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he felt little tremors run through her and he knew he had found something she liked. His hand found its way to that spot, his fingers sliding up and down. She was all soft, hot wetness there and he ached to feel more, more, more, and so did she. He was totally open to her, letting all her feelings, all her emotions, in, and what she felt now was a slightly embarrassed and still-vague desire. She wanted him. Badly. She was aching for him. For him.

He knew it could hurt women the first time…he wondered if she knew that and instantly received an answering thought that yes, she did, but she didn't care because she wanted, wanted, _wanted_. Her legs were open wide now and he pulled back, grabbing his cock, moving it over her folds, trying to get the angle right, and she was squirming, searching, her body begging, and then he felt his tip brush against something hotter and softer and wetter and he grabbed her hips and tilted them up and _pushed_. He slid inside her and kriff, he had never felt anything like it. He knew he should go slow, be gentle, but he couldn't; he had no control left so he just let go, plunging in, feeling the slick wetness as he stretched her, opened her, marked her. He felt a slight barrier but he pushed past it. She threw her head back and gasped, opened her mouth in a silent scream, then her body seemed to grip him even tighter and she was pushing up to meet him, wrapping her legs around his waist and hooking her ankles behind his back and pulling him in. He was so deep inside her, his whole length embraced by slick, hot perfection that felt nothing like his hand and made him wonder how that had ever seemed like enough. He had lost the ability to think, lost the sense of whose emotions and physical sensations he was actually feeling, lost any sense of trying to do this in some proper way and just let go, pounding into her, face contorted, sweating and panting and grunting.

She seemed to have done the same thing, thoughts gone, mind blank except to process what her body needed, and what it needed was exactly what he was doing, just _more_. He pulled her closer, so her hips were tilted up, and slid one hand between them, stroking that spot that he had found before, and her breathing changed and she hissed a desperate 'yes' against his chest, so he kept doing that as he slammed into her over and over, knowing he would never, ever get enough of her. She wasn't the infection; she was the cure, the drug, and he was addicted.

He felt tension building in her body, heard her sighs turn to moans, and he suddenly remembered that _his uncle, his enemy_ was sleeping in the next hut. "Shhh," He whispered.

Her nails were digging into his back. "I…I can't."

He felt her, quivering on the edge, and that combined with what her words meant…that he was making her lose control too…brought him to the edge too. "Then…then bite down on something," he said.

She did. He hadn't expected her to choose his shoulder, but she did, biting into his skin with her hot mouth and sharp little teeth as her muscles contracted around his cock, squeezing, tightening, her body shaking under his, a muffled, guttural cry still escaping her against his skin as she exploded in a sensation of pure bliss that he felt every bit of. It was all he could take and he pounded into her once, twice more and felt his own body release, pouring himself into her, grunting and grimacing as it went on and on, feeling so much more than he had ever felt before.

When it was over, they lay facing one another. She reached up, ran a finger along his scar. "Mine," she said.

He mirrored the gesture, running a finger along the side of her face, over the swell of her breast, the curve of her waist and hip, down her leg. "Mine," he said back.

She gave him a lazy smile and snuggled against his chest. He knew he had to leave before Luke woke up. If he found him here…

But then he felt an emotion coming from her that he had thought he would never feel from anyone: unconditional love. And he felt it too. For her. His drug. His _cure_. So he stayed. He would leave early in the morning. Luke would never know. His master _could_ never know. But he simply couldn't let her go yet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I had a really busy week and made myself promise I wouldn't work on Commemoration. I had a lot to get done. I needed to be disciplined and focused. And instead, this happened. Just demanded to be written, so I had to get it out of my system. It's just a one shot, truly, with no connection to my other stories. It started with me being busy, having to deal with lots of people, and thinking how being around other people is just exhausting, especially when they're emotional. Just draining, at least for an introvert like me.
> 
> So…here's this. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please comment. Pretty, pretty please with sugar on top? Comments are what keep me going!


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